I expected him to be cool. I’d heard the supremely self-possessed Derek Jeter call him “Mr. Torre,” as if kneeling at the feet of an ancient elder, and I’d had Dodgers broadcaster Charlie Steiner tell me, with just the slightest hint of exaggeration, that Torre “is like Neo in ‘The Matrix,’” a man capable of moving objects in space with a supernatural flick of the wrist. But what I hadn’t quite anticipated is the way Torre’s calm confidence seems to radiate, seems available to those around him, like a campfire at which they might warm their hands. Some of that comes from winning four World Series rings; he’s quick to say his success buys him time and goodwill with people. But some of it is just this: When you’re with Joe Torre, you get the feeling — though, as a student of postmodern culture and a working writer in the world of sports journalism, I know such things are impossible — that he might actually be for real.

Last fall, the Indians, and the entire Joe Torre Era already seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it?